She wore the same scarlet hairband each day

regardless of outfit, like a labcoat,

and I'd fallen, charmed by the chant of rote

recurrence I might've loved her despite,

the girl I'd see mornings but never talk

to, who'd then betrayed me with her boyfriend;

our scarlet potential rendered bone white.

Beautiful women in New York – don't they

all seem to head straight for you, like buses

the second you step down from the sidewalk?

I’d like my recurring bit part to end,

please, for the need grows increasingly dire

to weigh the sorrow of sex work versus

the monastic repression of desire.